


Sir Aziraphale and the Blind Bard

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Arthurian, Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Books, Historical, Holding Hands, Humor, In the way that every single fic for them is slow burn, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Road Trips, Slow Burn, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), YEAH I SAID IT, accent kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 02:37:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19802980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: Two days after the Black Knight has been banished, the court of King Arthur receives a mysterious visitor. It happens a lot more than you'd think, but Aziraphale is not entirely pleased to see this one.A few years later, Aziraphale is horrified to learn that someone was watching.And, even worse, they madenotes.





	Sir Aziraphale and the Blind Bard

**Author's Note:**

> It me, smushing together more of my niche interests and the beauty of it is that - like Sondheim - it is even canonical. I'm not even just making it work for me. Good Omens is the gift that keeps giving.

"My lord, a rider approaches through the storm." 

The young page who came to the king’s side was trembling as he spoke. Aziraphale had not seen the boy’s face before, which suggested he was probably new to the job. Tintagel did provide some very good employment opportunities for growing boys, even if Aziraphale couldn’t wholeheartedly approve of the child labour.

"What of it?" the king asked, his hand hovering over a basket of loaves. 

"Um..." the boy paused. "Well, Sir Bedevere asked if he should - permit him entry. What with the Black Knight roaming freely these past weeks." 

"Oh."

Arthur selected his loaf and gazed at it speculatively. As the silence stretched on, the boy began to twitch, and Aziraphale flexed his hand beneath the table, flooding the child with peace. It was hardly the youngster’s fault that Arthur was in a strange mood.

"Tell Bedevere to allow him entry. It’s a filthy night and our Aziraphale reassures me that the Black Knight will not be a bother to us anymore." 

The boy scuttled away and Arthur sighed, taking a bite from his bread. He turned his tired eyes to his companions. The table was a bit depleted of late - with Bedevere at the gates and many of the others off questing, only Aziraphale, Gawain and his brothers, and Merlin were at the king’s side.

And Lady Guinevere, of course. 

"Aziraphale, my dear - I haven’t made a mistake? The Black Knight will trouble us no more?"

"I do not believe so, my lord." 

Aziraphale bowed his head. He’d seen Crowley off just three days previously, when the demon had offered him a ridiculous deal to share their work, as though that was something either of them was actually free to do. Ridiculous. And besides, the Black Knight’s antics had been relatively tame, as Crowley tended to be. They’d had none of the chaos that came with a dragon or a roving beast or a giant knight in green armour, or any of that nonsense. A general feeling of ennui in the castle was hardly the most exciting thing any at this table had faced, but then Crowley was very good at spreading such feelings. It was his doing that Arthur was so downcast of late, and that several of the young ones had been repeatedly sent to their chambers for fighting. Crowley had always had a way of getting under the skin, which is how he’d convinced all in this castle that he - the Black Knight - was a much bigger problem than he actually was.

"It will be good to welcome a guest once more," Guinevere said gamely. "We haven’t had one in too long. Perhaps he will be a bard with new songs."

A crack of thunder drowned out Merlin’s reply to her, but Aziraphale would not have heard it even if he’d been listening. He felt something shift within him, and glanced sharply about. The hall was as it had been a moment previously but - _oh no._

Oh no.

Oh for goodness sake!

_Crowley._

"Are you well, Aziraphale?" Guinevere asked, her hand on his arm. "You look as though you’ve eaten something that doesn’t agree with you."

"Quite well, my lady," he grinned, through gritted teeth. The demon was here, somewhere in the damn castle. Oh, it was going to be a _terribly_ long and awkward night.

At that moment, the doors to the hall swung open once again, and Sir Bedevere entered. He was a large man, loyal and good of heart, and Aziraphale liked him very much. On Bedevere’s arm was a sight he was not sure he would enjoy as much - Crowley. Literally on his arm, holding tightly, for he had a bandage wrapped around his eyes, to hide them and their wickedness, no doubt. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. Crowley was dressed simply, no black armour in sight to give the game away and, most conveniently, an instrument upon his back. Aziraphale saw Guinevere’s eyes light up at the sight. Oh, Crowley had definitely done his homework here.

"My lord, a blind bard seeks shelter from the storm in these halls," Bedevere said formally. "The man carries no weapon, nothing except his lyre." 

"Welcome sir," Arthur said, waving his hand for a servant to bring the usual bread and water for the guest. "Please eat and drink, so we may be friends."

"Thank you, my lord" Crowley said softly, being most convincing in the way he reached out hesitantly, so that Bedevere was forced to place the bread direct into his hand. 

"Have you come far, friend?" Merlin asked, as Crowley chewed. Aziraphale watched the old man carefully. Whilst he knew Merlin was no magician, he did seem to have some mysterious insight into the people around him. Aziraphale could only hope Crowley guarded himself effectively against it.

"Very far."

"I only ask for you sound of our Gawain’s stock, and have the fire kissed hair to match it." 

"Oh aye, my lord," Crowley grinned. "I do believe I hail from close to the honourable Sir Gawain’s homeland. My name is Antonius."

Gawain, usually silent, suddenly spoke a few words in a language that Aziraphale did not understand. He clenched his fist and turned to Crowley, the game surely up, until the demon replied in more strange words. Whatever he said, it satisfied Gawain, who chuckled with his brothers and nodded at Arthur.

_Oh the wily serpent!_

"Come sir, join us," Arthur said. "We are depleted in numbers these past weeks. Many of my men are off on a quest of high importance. In the Holy Land."

Bedevere deposited Crowley into a seat at Merlin’s side and grabbed a loaf to take with him to the gates. The doors slammed behind him as he took his leave, and it was once more quiet in the hall.

"A quest in the Holy Land. They will be gone for a long time, my lord," Crowley said, his voice wrapping around the accent as though he had been born with it. Aziraphale felt a strange coil of warmth in his stomach at the soft roll of the vowels, like he’d never had with Gawain or any of his brothers. Surely he wasn’t pleased to see the demon? They hadn’t parted on good terms, after all. 

"Yes, a long time," Arthur sighed. "But all is well in the kingdom here, so the time was right. My Lancelot leads them, and he has never yet failed me."

It was a subtle thing, but Aziraphale did not miss the way Crowley’s head turned towards Guinevere at the king’s words, or the heat of the blush upon her cheek as her husband spoke. It was a thing that had been troubling Aziraphale, ever since he had arrived here in the court and earned his place at the top table. He did not have a word for what he thought was going on, not as such, but he was sure it was there, and whatever it was - it was certainly more of Crowley’s thing than his. Aziraphale was glad no one could see Crowley’s eyes, for he’d certainly give the game away if they could. 

"When you have rested a while, good Antonius, will you sing for us a song or two?" Guinevere asked. 

Aziraphale bit his lip - he knew all too well the havoc Crowley could wreak with an attentive audience, but apart from throwing the demon out on his ear, there wasn’t much he could do about it. And that didn’t seem sporting, somehow. He’d just have to work extra hard at keeping the peace whilst Crowley was under the roof. 

Later, as the storm raged outside, Arthur sent the pages to gather an audience for the bard. All who could be spared came, and Crowley was helped gently to a seat on the platform. Aziraphale stood away, close to the main door, as the demon began to play. Most ethereal beings knew how to play the basics of a harp, and he supposed that occult ones must have retained some of the knowledge too. Crowley had, anyway, for he played rather well. The songs were new to Aziraphale, who did love human music and knew many of them, and sung in that gentle rolling burr that Crowley had been impersonating all evening. 

Aziraphale found himself pressing hard against the wall as the music washed over him. The words were sad, and the melodies sadder, and by the end he could not have recalled a single thing about any of the songs. He felt tight all over, his stomach and his fists clenched, and Crowley’s voice rung in his ears as the humans seemed to come slowly out of whatever trance the demon had put them in. Oh but Crowley was very good. Aziraphale could taste the melancholy like metal in the air. No one in this castle would be happy for days, just when he’d been working so hard to keep their spirits up.

Well, that was quite enough play acting for one night.

"My lord, permit me to show - Antonius to a chamber," Aziraphale said, grasping Crowley’s arm. "Surely he is tired after his journey."

"Of course, of course," Arthur said. "Thank you for your entertainment, sir. Good Aziraphale will find you somewhere to lay your head."

"Thank you, my lord," Crowley grinned, then hissed under his breath."Squeeze harder, you haven’t broken any bones yet."

Aziraphale did loosen his grip - but only a little - as he frogmarched Crowley from the hall. He dragged him upstairs, to where his own chamber was, and shoved the demon inside. It was only when he had closed the door behind them that he realised his hand was flexing where it had touched Crowley's skin and - yes. Yes. Aziraphale had never touched him before. Goodness. What a turn of events. 

"Hi Aziraphale," Crowley began, reaching up to remove his bandage. "Nice place you’ve got -"

"Why are you here?"

"I told you the other day, spreading foment and general bad cheer. You can’t blame me for deciding to get to the source." 

Ah, it was much better to be able to see Crowley’s eyes. Aziraphale felt a little at sea whenever he couldn’t tell what the demon was thinking. 

"What - what source?"

"Guinevere and Lancelot. Don’t tell me you haven’t worked that one out? I know you’re slow, but seriously -" 

"I am not slow," Aziraphale bristled. "But I don’t - it’s really more your sort of thing isn’t it? Forbidden love and all that." 

"Oh yes," Crowley breathed, after a second of pause in which Aziraphale was almost certain he’d seen him flinch. Almost certain. "Yes, that certainly is more my thing."

"Well, you’ve made your point, being here. Very clever too, sneaking in like that. And your accent, very good. I’m impressed. But you can leave now. You’ve done your bit, it will take me _weeks_ to fix this blue mood you’ve plunged them all into." 

Aziraphale was rambling, he knew, but Crowley was giving him such a strange look, it almost made the breath he didn’t need catch in his throat. 

"Thought I might take a quick nap, here, if you don’t mind," Crowley said suddenly, as though the past minute hadn’t happened. "I’ll be out of your hair by the morning. Just been working hard, you know how it is."

Aziraphale did know how it was, and he also knew that Crowley didn’t really need the sleep that he insisted on taking, but one night probably wouldn’t do more damage than had already been done, and it was raining terribly outside. The fact that Crowley could miracle himself wherever he wanted to go didn’t even cross his mind. 

"Fine. One night. But you’ll be gone before the sun rises, or - or -"

"Or what?" Crowley smirked.

"Or - just be out of here."

Crowley wasted no time, throwing himself onto the bed and putting his arms behind his head. 

"Don’t mind me. Just do whatever you’d do if I wasn’t here."

"If you weren’t here, I’d feel much happier," Aziraphale muttered, going to his work table and picking up a book. Crowley’s chuckle went straight through him, like a sharp sword through rusty chainmail.

*****

"Thank you my darling," Aziraphale said, closing the Bentley door gentle on the large cardboard box. 

"Are you talking to me or the car?" Crowley asked from the driving seat, where one sinewy arm was resting casually out of the open window.

"You, of course," Aziraphale huffed, slipping into his own seat. He reached behind him and took a manuscript at random from the top of the box. "Thank you for making the drive."

Crowley made a sound in the back of his throat that meant 'Shut up, of course, you idiot', and pulled away from the shop. It was a bit of a drive back from Edinburgh to the cottage, but perhaps they'd stop along the way and have some tea, and maybe find a quiet place to pull over so Crowley could have a little nap on his shoulder. That would be nice. 

Aziraphale wiggled in his seat and took his white gloves from his pocket. He slipped them on and gently took the manuscript from its plastic cover. He'd known that he wouldn't be able to wait the whole drive home before he took a peek at just one or two. When a collector in Scotland had been in touch with what he claimed were undiscovered manuscripts from unknown authors recounting more tales of King Arthur, he'd been sceptical. But Crowley had suggested they make the trip, and if they turned out to be fakes, well, all they'd have done would be have a nice drive. 

Aziraphale could hardly argue with that logic. 

This manuscript was a story he'd seen before, way back sometime in the thirteenth century, although this would be a worthy addition to any collection, for being a very early version.

So he took out another one, because he could, and because Crowley was happy tapping his fingers in time with whatever he was playing on the radio. 

"Anything good?" Crowley murmured. 

"I don't know."

This manuscript was in a bit of a state, crumpled with fading ink, and the small sheets seemed to be out of order. He searched through for the title page and when he found it, promptly dropped the entire lot on the floor.

"Shit!" he squeaked, and tried to keep his shoes away from the pages. 

"Just pick them up, angel! Quickly!"

He took a deep breath and scooped up the papers, finding the offending page. Ah, no. He'd been right the first time.

_The Tale of Sir Aziraphal and the Blinde Bard._

Goodness, and he'd been so careful. So absolutely sure that he'd found and hidden away every reference to himself in Arthur's court. Heaven could be very funny about that sort of thing, had lots of rules about leaving no footprints, not making much of an impression. But this wiley author had got past him.

_Wiley author?_

"You look like someone's spat in your teapot, angel."

Crowley was looking at him, and Aziraphale clutched the manuscript to his chest.

"Crowley, my dear. Did you at any point write about the time you came to Arthur's court?"

"Me, write a story? Not really my style, you know that. Why, someone got one past you?"

"So it seems," Aziraphale breathed out carefully. Crowley didn't lie to him. He didn't lie, and that meant someone _had_ got past him. Well, it was fine as long as this was the only copy. It would be fine.

"Come on then," Crowley grinned, turning down the radio. "Let's hear it. Let's see how dashing they say that I was."

"Oh really," Aziraphale shuffled the pages on his lap. "I'm sure there will be none of that."

He took his glasses from his pocket and settled back in his seat. It was not a long story.

_"To Arthur's court at Tintagnel came a blinde bard, riding through raine and storme to the kinge. And Sir Bedevere did bade him enter, for the night was dark and a blinde man was no concerne to him."_

"That's not true," Crowley cut in. "He made me wait for ages, I was freezing my -"

"Creative licence, darling. That's how these stories go."

_The barde went to King Arthur's table, and ate bread and drank water as the custom says. The barde spoke with tongue of man from Sir Gawaine's homeland, and his hair was red as the hair of Sir Gawaine's kin. And so he was welcomed as kin, for Arthur and Gawaine were kin."_

"Did you like my accent that night?" Crowley interrupted again, his eyes shining. "I was pretty pleased with myself."

"It was - lovely. Very clever of you." Aziraphale squirmed in his seat, remembering how the accent had moved something deep inside of him.

"I didn't know at the time, of course, but it was a temptation," he admitted. "A rather beautiful one."

Crowley chuckled, his cheeks red, and he put a hand on Aziraphale's knee. 

"If only I'd known, I'd have kept it up," he said lightly. "Go on, I interrupted again."

_The lady Guinevere asked of the barde to sing for them, new songs that they did not know. So he did, and all fell under his spell, for the barde sang so prettily. None were more bewitched than gentle Sir Aziraphal, for he had been bewitched by song and man alike."_

Crowley choked and slammed a hand into the steering wheel, as Aziraphale gaped. 

"Who wrote this?" Crowley eventually gasped. "That's not - this wasn't allowed. Back then. Surely?"

"Perhaps why it never got popular," Aziraphale said. "I'm not sure I want to read anymore."

"Ah, it will be fun," Crowley squeezed his knee. "Let's see what scandal we caused."

It was always hard to argue with Crowley's logic, especially with Crowley's hands on him, which the demon knew full well, which was also why he weaponised it so often. But Crowley was probably right that there was no harm in reading the rest of it. It might even be fun. 

"On your head be it," he said. "Who knows what kind of filth might be here."

"Promises, promises."

 _The courte was bewitched by the music of the bard, and good Sir Aziraphal took the man away lest he make them all sleep for a hundred years. And he took him to his chamber for-_ oh dear - _for he wanted to lay with him and his silver tongue. None were more gentle or gracious than good Sir Aziraphal and the barde would lay with him too."_

"Well, they got that right," Crowley grinned. "Didn't know I was so obvious. Especially back then."

Aziraphale was too busy blushing to reply, but thank goodness the manuscript was almost finished. It had taken a long while to be able to talk about - well, about any of this - and having it laid out before him was just the wrong side of disconcerting. 

_And so they lay together, and the charm of the barde that fell over the castle was lifted, and all rejoiced, and all thanked good Sir Aziraphal, for saving them from the enchantment. And so ends the tale of Sir Aziraphal and the Blinde Barde."_

"Huh, not very long," Crowley grumbled. "Or scandalous."

"I wonder who wrote it," Aziraphale said, rubbing his thumb absently over Crowley's. "It's very - well, not accurate, but more accurate than these things tend to be. I was there and so were you, and this sort of happened. At least - I did take you to my room. To get you out of the way."

Crowley didn't reply, just turned the car into a services and pulled into a shady spot under a tree. As soon as the engine was off, he turned and dragged Aziraphale into a kiss. He tasted of the coffee he'd drunk back at the shop.

"It doesn't matter, does it? Who wrote it?"

"No," Aziraphale murmured. "It doesn't matter. But maybe-"

"Yes?"

"Would you sing one of the songs for me? When we get home, I mean?"

Crowley's eyebrows shot up and he growled low in his throat. 

"I'll even dig out the lyre."

"In the accent?" Aziraphale blushed so hard that he could feel it in his hair roots. "Will you-"

"Yes, anything. Anything."

Crowley kissed him soundly one more time then went hurrying into the station. Aziraphale tried to quiet the animal in his chest by tidying the pages on his lap. It wasn't wholly successful. That time in Tintagel had always been a painful memory for him, and he'd never known why. Never known why having Crowley there, so close, had hurt so much once it was over. He just hadn't _known._

Crowley came back with a bag of food and two takeaway cups, which he almost spilled as he leapt in. 

"Buckle up, angel. We aren't stopping and I'm driving fast."

The memory of Crowley's voice, curling around that soft and rolling burr, the way he'd looked and stood so close, how he'd let Aziraphale lead him, touch him for almost the first time, was almost too much to bear. 

But he would, because they were going home.

**Author's Note:**

> I probably don't need to explain the joke, but Gawain and his brothers are from Orkney, which means that they have spectacular Scottish accents. And Crowley, for some reason, is just really really really good at imitating one...


End file.
